going on inside
my head. And the only thing
people wear is their
suffering. It’s made of Plexiglas
so the windows don’t get
smashed. The only thing
people carry is a whip for their
chariot. And they’ll race inside my mind
until the bell rings it’s supper time. That’s when
they take a break to eat a wedge of
pound cake. Then those babies fledge –
because I drive them off the edge. Until
the next one’s born.